


Circadian

by sugarboms898



Series: Never to Come Out [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: "chronal disassociation", Gen, Light Angst, Out of Body Experiences, References to Canon, Time Travel, allusions to astral projection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 01:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboms898/pseuds/sugarboms898
Summary: Floating like she’s in a pool, she lets her limbs stretch out. The pain in her elbow dulls, a mere ache as she lingers in the stone. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, but floating here where time and space don’t matter, she allows herself to relax.





	Circadian

She wakes screaming, falling through the air.

The ground rushes up to meet her, the sight of houses and backyards growing from stamps to billboards in seconds. Tears are yanked from her face, flying behind her as she blasts towards the earth. It is a strange sensation, both long and short; it feels as though time has stopped and sped forward simultaneously. She is moments from crashing, closing her eyes the moment she can differentiate individual blades of grass.

There is impact.

But is not what she is expecting.

She falls, hard, on the ground, cement and stone shooting jolts of pain up and down her side. The breath is knocked out of her, her body shaking as she curls in on herself. Loud shouts fill the room, echoing and bouncing through the openness. It’s a hangar–how does she know it’s a hangar?

_“–medical, now–”_

Her breath rattles out of her as she sinks through the floor, the coolness of the stone momentarily soothing the fire in her side.

It’s dark, darker than the absence of sight, and it’s–

Floating like she’s in a pool, she lets her limbs stretch out. The pain in her elbow dulls, a mere ache as she lingers in the stone. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, but floating here where time and space don’t matter, she allows herself to relax. Distantly, she can still hear the shouts from the hangar, the sounds far off and muffled like cotton.

She floats there for so long, feeling the earth rotate and the pull of the moon on her navel. She feels the weightlessness of her body solidify; she is pulled long and taut, her body stretched far beyond its limits.

In a blink, she is curled on the floor of _The Slipstream_ , her eyes wide and unseeing. Colors blur together, mixing and bubbling out until the barest outlines are made; the communicator in her ear crackles to life, an authoritative voice filling the space.

_“Oxton. Status update.”_

Oxton.

That’s right, her name is Oxton.

_“Lena.”_

Lena Oxton.

“–mander,” she breathes out, the Commander’s voice drowning her out, “Commander, I hear you.”

_“Oxton, come in, Oxton. I want Ziegler in that cockpit immediately–”_

“Commander Morrison, I’m here, I hear you.”

Morrison continues to bark orders over the comms, his voice growing stern and harsh; Lena grimaces, trying to follow the one-sided discussion.

 _“–I don’t_ care _if there’re no vitals–”_

Lena shudders fearfully, curling in on herself as _The Slipstream’s_ door is wrenched open from the outside. Dr. Ziegler and Commander Morrison enter quickly, their eyes roving over the room with mounting concern. Lena watches as Dr. Ziegler’s face crumples in on itself, the blonde woman biting her lip as she haltingly steps towards the control panel. Shivering on the floor, Lena waits for Dr. Ziegler to start assessing her injuries.

She doesn’t.

“She’s gone,” Ziegler whispers, hand hesitating before touching the pilot’s seat, “Do you think she’s…”

Hands clenching, Commander Morrison growls, “We don’t know that.”

“Jack–”

“See if you can find any trace of Oxton here; once you’re done, meet me and Reyes in the situation room.”

Commander Morrison storms out of the jet, Dr. Ziegler sucking in a breath once he leaves. She turns back towards the pilot’s chair, her expression tight. She begins examining the cockpit as thoroughly as she can, never looking towards Lena.

Lena breathes heavily on the floor, her mind racing as Dr. Ziegler continues her search. After a few minutes, Ziegler seems to finish her search, sighing heavily as she stands. Giving the space one last glance, Ziegler walks towards the door, walking through Lena–

Walking through her.

Lena lets out a loud sob, her eyes wide and frantic. She holds her hand in front of her face, desperate.

Her hand is transparent, fading the longer she stares.

She is disappearing.

Tears leaking down her face, Lena tries standing, pain shooting through her body as her legs sink into the plane’s metal carapace. Unlike before, she feels every atom of her being as she melds with the metal, her voice breaking as she screams out. Her hands scrabble across the metal plating, nails and skin tearing as her body continues to sink.

Sound is distorting the air around her, grating harsh and raggedly through her head until all she can hear is the roaring of Earth, its core sloshing and whirring like a typhoon. Lena clenches her eyes shut, trying to block out the world as it yanks and tugs at her body. Soon, only her head is left free of fading, fine transparent webs crawling up her neck and into her hair. Though she no longer has lungs, she heaves rapidly, mind breaking.

She hopes it will stop.

She hopes she will disappear completely, if only to stop the pain.

Soon, even her head sinks into the metal around her, floating down and deep into the earth until she is pulled apart by thin rivulets of iron.

Finally, it will stop.

* * *

 She doesn’t know how long she’s been like this.

She vaguely remembers her life from before, when she had a mum, and a dad. When she ran track in secondary school, and had a dog named Rita. When she kissed a girl for the first time, her heart racing and her palms sweaty, and the first touch of another’s hands on her body. She remembers she joined the RAF, signing on to Overwatch’s pilot program at eighteen. When she was selected to pilot _The Slipstream_.

She remembers moments, like images seen through six layers of fogged glass. The details are fuzzier the longer she goes without thinking; she tries her hardest to remember her mum’s smile and her dad’s laugh, but she’s tired. It’s hard when all she has is eternity to forget.

Sometimes she hears distorted whale song, cosmic and haunting in its beauty. She remembers reading Lovecraft one summer, the sounds exactly as she imagined. It takes her longer than she’d like to admit, but eventually she realizes the mournful sounds are not heavenly but human, their voices stretched beyond comprehension. It’s comforting, knowing that even if she can’t distinguish what they’re saying, there’s still something connecting her to her old life.

She has no corporeal body–not anymore–but the feeling and sensation of one remains. Sometimes she thinks she can wiggle her toes or flex her shoulders, and it calms her. She has so much time to think, sometimes it’s nice to ignore reality and pretend she’s normal. Those might be her favorite times, when she can focus on her limbs, reshaping them and losing them until she feels whole again. When the song starts up, swelling sweet and low, her eyes flutter shut and she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

She wakes up, disoriented and cold.

It’s a shock to her system; the universe is balmy and humid, cradling her in a warm cocoon. The air around her now swirls with dust motes and ice particles, settling on her skin and sticking. She hasn’t had skin in eons; it feels strange, synthetic. Her limbs are like boulders, leaden and unmoving. She can feel every individual hair on her body, their roots invasive and sharp. Even with her eyes closed, the brightness of natural light feels blinding.

There’s an unholy screech filling the air, the cadence rough and jarring and splintering. The sound is so painful, so shattering–she lifts her hands towards her head on instinct long forgotten, her hands only minutely drowning out the sound. Something forceful grips her arm; it scares her. It’s dragging her across the ground, pulling and yanking and sending fire up her jelly-limbs. The shrieking continues, drilling into her skull and tugging behind her eyes; Lena can only clench her eyes shut, hoping it will end.

“–on!”

Lena whimpers, trying to curl in on herself. The shrieking swells, reaching a pitch to high for human ears; it makes her ears bleed, the liquid dripping through her fingers and running down her arms. Something hard and brutal clamps her arm, her eyes shooting open involuntarily.

“Ox–wha–pened?”

There’s a crowd forming around her, faces she doesn’t recognize. They look unreal, their features too exaggerated and too expressive. The shrieking continues, but it becomes secondary to the absolute roar that fills the hall a moment later. Lena flinches, her body taut and sore as the crowd scatters. A large, hulking figure fills her view, wide golden eyes on the brink of tears catching her interest.

“Lena.”

Her name is a whisper, hoarse and disbelieving. Lena shudders, bones groaning and grinding together. She opens her mouth wider, suddenly acutely aware that the shrieking is coming from her.

“Ziegler, where–Ziegler?”

There’s a murmur from the crowd, a few breaking off to look for the doctor. The figure grows impatient, though, cradling Lena’s body to his chest and loping off. She groans in his grasp, hands clenching around her head. The figure tries to shush her, his hands gentle as he carries her towards the medical wing.

Ziegler intercepts them almost immediately, her jaw clenched and face ashen. She takes one look at Lena before reaching for her, jaw twitching Lena’s carrier hesitates.

“Winston–on the cot–”

Winston sets her down on a cot, hand brushing over Lena’s hair. She flinches, drawing a wounded sound from Winston; retracting his hand, Winston begins helping Doctor Ziegler gather machines and IV drips and medical gear.

“–we do?”

“Stabilize–”

Lena shudders, a tugging on her navel like lead. She sobs out, her eyes wide and frantic; Winston and Ziegler clatter around her, their voices a frantic mixture as they notice her wavering body. Lena shakes her head, tears running down her face and dripping into air. Winston tries to grip her arm, his hand passing through her body and jamming into the wall behind her.

“Lena, no!”

But Lena is fading, flickering in and out as Ziegler and Winston watch in horror.

* * *

She starts appearing more frequently, though her body is often hollow, transparent. Astral. Rarely is she solid, and rarely is she seen. But they must have developed something to detect her presence: every time she appears, Doctor Ziegler and Winston appear a few moments later, searching and scanning the area for her.

When she does solidify next, Winston is there immediately, his hands forever gentle as he lifts and carries her. Ziegler is waiting in a prefabricated room, outfitted with a cot and medical equipment; Commander Morrison stands next to her, his hands clenched in fists. He startles as Winston sets Lena on the cot, his expression shuttering a moment before turning to the doctor and scientist.

“Will she stay, this time?”

Ziegler shrugs helplessly, her eyes dark. Winston growls, standing to full height.

“I’m working on it.”

Morrison nods once, sparing Lena a short glance before striding from the room. Ziegler sighs, quickly drawing blood from Lena and activating the machinery around her. Winston moves towards a wall console, hands flying over the keyboard. Lena watches him, body shivering, freezing.

“Lena, Lena can you understand me?” Ziegler asks, her voice calm and quiet.

Soothing. Comforting.

Lena nods, hands nestled in her armpits for warmth. Doctor Ziegler steps away, pulling a thermal blanket from the shelves; she settles it on Lena’s body, softly rubbing her extremities to speed up Lena’s blood flow. The young pilot lets out a small hum, her chattering teeth quieting. Winston is an immovable object, attention barely straying from the console as Doctor Ziegler tries to assist Lena.

They get an hour.

Her body fades to nothingness, the IV Doctor Ziegler had attached to her arm falling to the floor and spilling. Winston slams a hand against the wall, his eyes full of pain as his friend starts to cry out; wiping her own tears, Doctor Ziegler whispers comforting words as Lena fades.

“Winston–”

“I’ll bring her back. If it’s all I do for the rest of my life, I’m bringing Lena back.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the phrase "circadian rhythm," which refers to the 24-hour cycle or clock that animals and people observe time as. Usually it's used in the context of sleeping.
> 
> I've always been really interested in Tracer's backstory, and the time she spent without a corporeal body; I wanted to explore that further, and make it a more visceral experience than Lena just disappearing and reappearing like nothing happened. I always figured it would be a much more harrowing/traumatic experience than it's presented as.
> 
> I struggled to find where I wanted to end this fic; I had actually written a bit more, exploring Lena's ability to fall in and out of the past/future. I had also originally planned for Athena to be included as the device that tracks Lena's presence, but decided against that, as well.
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know if there's any errors in spelling or grammar and I'll fix it up!


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